


Your city gave me asthma, that's why im fucking leaving

by Fizzipop



Series: Big Brother Wilbur [2]
Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst?, Found Family, Gen, Good Older Sibling Wilbur Soot, Hurt TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Hurt/Comfort, Lonely TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Older Sibling Wilbur Soot, Protective Wilbur Soot, Running Away, SHIPPERS DNI, Sad TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), again if they are uncomfortable with this i will take it down, god i watched the the Jan.20 stream live and i cried happy tears
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-12 09:56:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28883532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fizzipop/pseuds/Fizzipop
Summary: *Jan 20th stream spoilers in the summary*OHMYGOD THE STREEEEAAAMMM AHHHHHHHHH IM CRYING BUT DW ITS HAPPY TEARS. TOMMY AND TUBBOOO AND THEN TOMMY AND WILBURRRRRR!!!!!!!!! THE WAY TUBBO WAS READY TO GIVE UP HIS LIFE FOR TOMMY TO HAVE HIS DISCS AND THE WAY TOMMY CHOSE TUBBO OVER HIS DISCS. *sobs*anyways, (im still crying)Tommy escapes from his parents and Wilbur has to come to save him from freezing to death.!!!!!EVERYTHING!!!!! IS!!!!! PLATONIC!!!!!!
Relationships: Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit, dont come near this fic, go away shippers, me & pain, platonic only
Series: Big Brother Wilbur [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2118141
Comments: 6
Kudos: 292





	Your city gave me asthma, that's why im fucking leaving

It hurt.

It hurt so so bad.

He wasn't sure what hurt more. The injuries or the memory of how he got them. 

The yelling, the running, and the hiding. The hiding didn't work.

Distantly, he recognized the flowing of water around his body and the cold seeping in, but his brain was too foggy to turn it into a thought. His head throbbed, and he could hear his heartbeat in his ears. He didn't want to move; the heavyweight on his chest and aching in his bones making it too difficult to get up. That, and the fact that for some reason, he wanted to lay here.

It was almost relaxing, the rush of water running past his ears, making its way to his mouth where it entered his lungs, filling them up. A calming feeling washed over him, washing away the sound of alarms that were ringing in his head; screaming at him to get up, to do something, _anything ___

But he didn't. Because why should he? The events leading up to this proved that even his parents didn't care for him; the people who were supposed to love him, more than anybody. So who's to say that anybody else did.

His friends flashed through his mind. 

_Tubbo, Wilbur, Phil, Technoblade_

They were more of a family than his blood one ever was.

Would they care if he drowned here? Would they cry? Would they mourn?

 _they would_ a little voice in the back of his jumbled brain whispered. _They care, Tommy. They care so much._

Do they though? 

_yes, yes_ the voice whispered, it's desperate pleas getting quieter and quieter. _if you can not do this for yourself, do it for them._

Do it for them? His static in his brain was getting louder and his lungs burned, a stark contrast to the calm feeling he had felt minutes prior.

_do it for them_

A pause. And then-

He lurched upwards, eyes flinging open and lungs emptying themselves. He coughed and sputtered and heaved, the water spilling from his mouth into the already overflowing bathtub. The tap was running and the water flowed over the top of the rim and down onto the floor, covering every speck with freezing bathwater.

Tommy gasped for air, his heart pounding and chest heaving, because _he would not die here._

________

Tommy dragged himself up and over the edge of the bathtub, collapsing on the water-flooded floor. He laid there for a good minute, trying to ground himself before sitting upon his knees, eyes level with the countertop. He moved too fast, the movement making his stomach lurch, and he vomited, the contents of his lungs and stomach spilling out, mixing with the water already on the floor. He sneered at it, disgusted, only to hunch over again and retch. Bathwater dripped out of his mouth as he gasped for air, the vile taste of bile lingering on his tongue. 

He turned away from the vomit and sobbed. Tears ran down his damp face, revealing his sadness to the world, only for there to be no one to view it.

Tommy wiped away his tears with a damp hand, eyes going in and out of focus, unable to see exactly where he was. His eyes darted around, not picking up on anything until they hit a splotch of red. 

Blue eyes widened, and he scrambled to find out where the blood was coming from. There were no open wounds on his arms and hands, none on his legs. No rips or tears in his clothing, and he ran his hands over his face, pulling back to reveal clean palms. He didn't understand. Where was it coming from?

He lifted his hands to his head and rested them on his hair, only to yank them away as a sharp pain stabbed his skull. His head throbbed and ached, a pounding slowly working its way up the back of his head.

Tommy groaned and rested his forehead against the cool marble counter, trying to take deep breaths, only to cough and sputter, his lungs burning. It hurt, to breathe, amongst other things, but he knew he couldn't just stop breathing. So he carried on, each breath making his lungs ache and his breaths were short and small.

It took a while, but after a good five minutes, he lifted his head and glanced around the room. He was in his second-floor bathroom, the lights were off and the bathtub was overflowing.

Oh yeah, he should probably turn the faucet off. Not that it would do much; the floor was already soaked, the water leaking out under the door. Tommy stumbled upwards, pulling himself up with the counter. His world spun and the edges of his vision darkened, but he continued. he placed one foot in front of the other, hands gripping the countertop, afraid of what would happen if he let go. Staggering over to the tap, one hand let go of the counter and reached out for the faucet. His free hand touched the cold metal of the tap, and he latched on to it, turning it off.

He then promptly crumbled to the watery ground, his already waterlogged clothes doing nothing to block out the chill of the liquid. His vision was fading in and out, and he wasn't sure how much longer he would stay conscious.

All he knew was that alarms were once again ringing in his head, telling him to _get out!_ and _you're not safe!_. He did as he was told, and heaved himself up, once again clutching the counter like a lifeline, the edge digging painfully in his palm. The blood in the water was forgotten about.

He wobbled and swayed, but did not give up, and he made it to the door. Turning the handle was a pain with his slippery hands, but he managed and wrenched the door open. 

The carpet was soaked, and when Tommy stepped on it, water came bubbling up, squelching under his feet. Stumbling past the closet door, he made it to his room, the door decorated with stickers of all his friends' characters and papers that read stupid quotes Tommy has said. One of his favorites being: 'just killed a woman, feeling good.' A whiteboard was hung on a nail, screaming ' **TOMMYINNIT'S ROOM** '.

He turned the knob and was greeted with a messy room. The covers were thrown off his bed onto the floor, and his phone was peeking out from under them. 

His phone!

He hurried over, bending down to retrieve his phone (he ignored the way his vision faded in and out), and quickly unlocked it, scrambling to see what time it was.

_3:47 AM_

He stared at the numbers, disbelief trickling in. There's no way. The last thing he remembered was that it was around 1:30 am and his parents were fighting and then they called him, and, and then-

His eyes watered, the walls spun and his lungs burned. What the fuck.

A loud slam sounded below, and Tommy jumped, softly cursing when his head painfully reminded him that it was not doing too well. Footsteps could be heard downstairs, and Tommy panicked. 

_what do I do, what do I do!?_

He took a deep breath,(it was what Wilbur taught him to do if he was scared) but all it did was make his lungs burn as if he was breathing in hot lava.

A person was climbing the stairs.

He scrambled away from the door, forgetting to shut it in his haste, and made his way to the window behind his set up. Knocking over his monitors (he did not care at the moment, because his mind was screaming at him that he was about to die) he stood on his desk and fumbled to open the window.

The steps were getting closer, and Tommy did not dare turn around. His hands were cold and stiff, and he was struggling to get the latch open.

He needed to get out _now_.

"TOMMY!!" a voice roared, hands yanking him from the window and throwing him on the ground. 

Tommy couldn't breathe. It was happening again, ohmygod he was going to die here. He clutched at his chest, short, raspy gasps escaping from him A figure stood over him, but he didn't meet their eyes. Instead, he screamed. He screamed as loud as he could, and he kicked and hit and cried as if he was a toddler having a temper tantrum. But this was no toddler, this was a 16-year-old fighting for what he believed to be his life. 

He was not going to die. Not here, not now because he made a promise to that stupid little voice in his head, telling it he'd live, if only for one more night, just for his friends. He jumped up, fueled by adrenaline and adrenaline alone, and ran over to the window again. This time, his hands were not trembling, no. He managed to undo the latch and he shoved the window open.

He peered out the open window, the cold nighttime air freezing his damp face. It didn't help that it was the dead of winter. But it didn't matter to him, because that window was a way out.

And he took it.

__________

It was cold. Freezing.

Tommy's red, soaked hoodie did nothing to block out the ice-cold winds that cut through him. He was wearing beige cargo pants, which should've helped, if not for the fact that they were also soaked.

His spike of adrenaline had long passed, and he was left blue-lipped and tired. He wasn't quite sure where he was going, just _away_.

Away from his parents, away from that hell hole that he was trapped in.

He wasn't sure he was going to make it far, though. He couldn't feel his feet or his hands and his head felt like it was stuffed with cotton. But he soldiered on, through the snow and wind, until he could not walk any longer, and collapsed in a bus stop. Grateful to be out of the wind and snow, he closed his eyes.

His heartbeat was in his ears, and the world was fading in and out, and he knew if laid here for the rest of the night, he'd be a goner.

And he had promised. He had promised to live one more day.

So he opened his eyes and picked up his phone and clicked on the first contact name that came up.

_'Big Man Wilby'_

He sent his location, and then closed his eyes.

It was nice, to finally rest.

_________

Wilbur was fucking panicking.

Tommy had just sent Wilbur his location, and he was at a fucking bus. A bus stop. At 4 in the bloody morning.

What the fuck.

Wilbur wasn't stupid. He knew what Tommy wanted him to do. He wanted him to get out of bed, drive in the fucking snow, to get him. Wilbur was not doing this without an explanation

 _'Tommy.'_ He sent, anxiously pacing around his bed.

_'Tommy if this is a fucking joke I will seriously murder you'_

No answer, not even read.

_'TOMMY'_

Okay, maybe he will go with no explanation.

_________

Wilbur had been driving for three hours now, anxiously checking his phone every twenty minutes and then getting even more worried when he saw that Tommy hasn't replied yet. His back was sore, but that was the east of his worries as Tommy took up most of his mind.

Tommy's location was plugged into the car's GPS, the occasional ' _turn left in four hundred meters_ ' scaring Wilbur out of his thoughts. He was so worried for the kid, and burning questions plagued his mind.

Why didn't Tommy contact his parents? (Were his parents the problem?)

Why Wilbur of all people? (Did the kid trust him that much?)

And was Tommy okay? (Obviously not, his brain told him, if he's at a bus stop at 4 am, but Wilbur chose to ignore his brain)

The GPS voice spoke;

 _You have arrived at your destination_ and Wilbur slammed on his brakes so hard his driver's license should've been revoked. Being more careful this time, he parked his car on the side of the road and jumped out. No Tommy was in sight, and Wilbur once again panicked. Was he gone? Did someone take him? Wilbur scanned the surrounding area, eyes screeching to a halt when they found the bus stop. There, on the bench, was Tommy fucking innit. His heart stopped beating. The poor kid looked _dead_ for god's sake. Wilbur took shaky steps which turned into a full-on sprint wanting- no, _needing_ to get to his little brother as fast as possible.

He reached Tommy, and he did not believe what he saw. 

"Tommy" He whispered, eyes wide.

Tommy was in stiff clothing, his previously damp hair frozen with ice and his breaths were short and raspy, his chest hardly moving. His lips were a scary shade of blue and he was so, so pale. Wilbur scooped him up in one swift movement, the air returning to his lungs and he took deep, shaky breaths of air. He bolted over to the car, slamming open the back door and gently placing Tommy down. Wilbur ripped off his winter coat and wrapped it around the younger, hoping to get back some of his body heat. Tommy was shivering, and the time between his breaths seemed to get longer and longer.

Wilbur was scared, possibly the most scared he had ever been. He had a dying kid in the backseat of his car. Bloody hell. 

He jumped in the driver's seat and plugged in the key, turning the heat on full blast. 

He took one last glance towards the backseat and started driving.

__________

For the millionth time this night, (more like early morning), Wilbur was fucking panicking. Tommy was currently laying on his couch, covered in a million blankets and Wilbur was sure he was gonna go bankrupt with how high the heat was. But that didn't matter, because his little brother was half dead, sending no signs of life. Wilbur didn't know what to do; he knew he had to get Tommy out of those damp clothes, so he focused on that. He ran to his room and scrambling to find the smallest clothes he had. Tommy was tall for a 16 teen-year-old, but Wilbur was still taller, something he would usually brag about to Tommy, but now he cursed his tallness, for he could not find clothes that would fit his younger brother.

Wilbur cried out in frustration, angry tears rolling down his face. His brother was _dying_ , and here he was, having a mental breakdown over clothes. Saying 'fuck it', he grabbed the closest clothes and bolted back to Tommy. He changed him, the other pair of clothes going straight to the dryer, and Tommy visibly relaxed.

Wilbur collapsed in the kitchen chair, running his hands over his face, ignoring the tears that prickled at the back of his eyes. _Fuck_.

Tommy was in his house. Tommy fucking innit. Was in his house, dying of hypothermia. Or he could be. Wilbur didn't really know anything at this point.

Wilbur froze. Holy fuck. Tommy could have hypothermia. It was a huge possibility because Tommy had been out there for at least three hours with nothing but soaked clothes.

Okay, it's okay, he could work with this.

He hurriedly unlocked his phone and searched up 'how to treat hypothermia'. Results instantly showed up and he clicked on the first link.

_Step 1: Be gentle..._

Wilbur cursed, and he glanced over to Tommy, hoping he had been gentle enough.

_Step 2: Move the person out of the cold..._

Yeah, yeah, He did that.

_Step 3: Remove wet clothing..._

Mhm, check.

_Step 4: Cover in blankets..._

Okay, he's done all that, now how can he do _more_?

_Step 5: Monitor breathing..._

Wilbur let out a breath, he could do that. Something to keep him busy.

Step number six was to provide warm beverages, but he couldn't do that until Tommy was awake, and he wasn't sure if he should forcefully wake him up. Hell, Wilbur didn't even know if he actually had hypothermia; he was just going off of guesses.

Wilbur groaned, rubbing his face with his hands, trying to scrub away the tiredness.

He turned off his phone and sat there, staring, making sure Tommy was alive. He watched every rise and fall of his brother's chest, hidden under the blankets, every pause in his breaths, fighting the urge to sleep until he could no longer. His eyes slipped shut, and he fell into a dreamless sleep.

_____

When he awoke the sun was sinking in the sky and Tommy was still unconscious. Wilbur yawned, still exhausted, and stood up. He winced as his back cracked, and stumbled over to Tommy. The kitchen floor was cold against his bare feet; his socks had come off with his shoes last night. But he paid the coolness no mind and instead focused solely on the kid in front of him. He had gotten better, the blueness of his lips was gone and he had stopped shaking a while ago. In all honesty, Wilbur was surprised the kid was still alive. He had been out in the cold, unprotected, for over three hours. It was a miracle he survived.

Wilbur was beyond relieved that he had gotten to Tommy in time. If he had shown up and Tommy was gone, he was pretty sure he would've broken down there and then. Now all he needed to do was make sure the boy stayed alive. He kneeled beside him and pulled back the blanket. He looked so small in Wilbur's clothes. He was like a skeleton, his ribs poking through and the hollowness of his cheeks.

Wilbur sighed and got to his feet. He wanted to make soup, so when Tommy woke up ( _'if'_ his mind traitorously whispered) all he'd have to do is heat it. He gave one last glance towards Tommy before heading to his pantry. He grabbed all the ingredients and got to work. It was a pretty basic chicken soup recipe he learned off of the internet, but he had to prepare everything first, so it was a good distraction.

Once the soup was done, he poured out a generous serving into a bowl and put it in the fridge. He served another bowl and took it with him into the living room to eat. He ate slowly, keeping watch on Tommy's breathing and when he was finished, he put the bowl in the sink to be taken care of later. 

He sighed and rested his elbows on the edge of the kitchen sink, mind racing. He was so worried for Tommy. He was confused as well. What the hell happened to that kid? He was out in the early hours of the morning, it was freezing and his clothes were soaked. Had he fallen in a lake or some shit!? Not to mention the bruises he had found on him when he changed the kid. Those made him angry. Who had the _nerve_ to hurt his baby brother?

Wilbur scowled and stood up straight. He added the bruises to the list of questions to ask Tommy when he wakes up. He turned around and returned to his previous spot in the living room. Tommy was doing alright, Wilbur supposed. His chest was clear, judging from the sound of his breathing and he didn't seem to be sick. His skin wasn't cold to the touch, his face was devoid of any pain but he lay still. Not waking up. He would almost assume that Tommy was dead, if not for the steady rise and fall of his blanket-covered chest.

He watched his breathing a while more, hoping that Tommy would give up. By the time he gave up, night was falling and he stood up to go upstairs. 

A small movement caught his eyes, and he whipped around. Tommy was shifting on the couch, muttering something unintelligible under his breath, more before falling still once again.

Wilbur waited, frozen, to see if Tommy would move again. He stayed there for several minutes before sighing and walking down the hall to his bedroom.

And once he was in his bed, the softness a relief for his tired body, he smiled.  
___________

The next day passed in a blur. It was the same as the day before, just with more movements from Tommy. A shift here, and mutter there, all of it getting more and more frequent.

Wilbur had put off streaming and videos for a while, tweeting about how he had to deal with something personal. Everyone was understanding, his friends telling him 'no worries!' and 'come back when you're ready', and he was very grateful. He had been so stressed even before Tommy had needed his help, and now that he had to take care of him, his stress has shot up. Not that he blamed the kid, Tommy very clearly needed help and Wilbur was glad he trusted him enough to ask for help.

_ding_

He glanced down at his phone, and upon seeing that he had a message, unlocked it and read the little blurb on the notification. It was from Tommy's father. 

' _Mr. Soot, I am sorry to bother you, but recently my son, Tommy, has run away. I was wondering if you had seen him as..._ '

Wilbur stared at the message, clicking on it to see more.

' _as he is your friend. I have already asked all of his friends, including his best friend, Toby. Or you would know him as Tubbo. I believe they wouldn't lie, and I trust you to do the same. Thanks, Tommy's father._ '

Wilbur ran a hand over his face, and let his phone drop onto the carpeted floor.

_Tommy ran away?_

It should've been obvious, the kid had sent Wilbur his location, not his parents. And now he was harboring a runaway. Wilbur groaned. He had known Tommy would bring trouble, but he had taken him in anyways. He wasn't sure if he regretted it or not yet. 

However, running away didn't explain the bruises or the wet clothes. Had Tommy run into some bad people who hurt him and then tossed him into a river or something? Wilbur shook his head, Tommy would've called 999 if people on the street tried to hurt him like that. Tommy wasn't stupid. He was impulsive, yes, but not stupid. Then where did he get the-

Wilbur's eyes widened. He connected the dots. A runaway, bruises, not contacting his parents, and instead someone hours away. The clothes were still a mystery but that could be saved for when Tommy woke up. He picked up his phone from the floor and hesitated. His fingers paused over the keyboard. Then he narrowed his eyes and continued rapidly typing.

' _I'm sorry, I haven't seen or heard from Tommy._ '

________

Later that night, as he was preparing to go to bed, Tommy woke up.

Wilbur rushed over to Tommy's side, kneeling down and gently propping him up. Tommy stared at him, eyes half-shut.

"Tommy?" Wilbur whispered, trying not to scare the poor boy. Tommy squinted, raking his eyes over Wilbur's face as if trying to figure it who he was. It was a solid minute before anyone spoke.

"W'br?" Tommy mumbled, words slurring together to make whatever he was saying almost incomprehensible. Wilbur smiled. "Yeah, it's me, bud. Can you hear me? Do you feel okay? What happened?" Wilbur knew he was overwhelming the kid, but he couldn't stop the questions from pouring out of his mouth. He wanted an explanation. He wanted to know if he had to beat someone up.

Tommy was silent, staring wide-eyed at Wilbur, shaky hands darting up to his head to pull on his hair.

"Wilbur..." Tommy breathed, and then his eyes filled with tears and he sobbed, fingers curling around his locks and tugging as hard as he could. He curled in on himself, pulling his knees towards his chest and hiding his face. Wilbur reacted immediately, wasting no time to wrap his arms around the sobbing boy. He held him even as Tommy screamed and cried, never wanting to let go. When Tommy finally calmed down, Wilbur held him at arm's length, a questioning look in his eyes.

"Tommy," the boy hiccuped, wiping his eyes with Wilbur's sweater sleeve. "don't feel pressured to talk, but do you mind telling me what happened?"

Tommy drew in a sharp breath and managed a nod, before begging to recall what happened that night.

Through it all, through tears, screams, and sobs, Wilbur felt nothing but brotherly love and protectiveness for Tommy and rage and disgust towards the people who dared call themselves his parents. 

' _No,_ ' He thought, brushing a hand through Tommy's tangled hair, whispering soothing words. ' _He's my kid now_ '

________

After that day, Tommy slowly got better. He was definitely a lot less energetic, but he was improving, and Wilbur was nothing but proud of the boy. It was a fight to get him to bathe himself, the water terrifying him, and the first time he'd had a panic attack in the bathroom. They hung around the apartment, Wilbur hardly ever leaving. Tommy felt bad about it but after reassurances from Wilbur, he knew he wanted to help him. 

They eventually had to go to court to remove Tommy's parent's custody of him, and soon he was placed in the foster system. Tommy was scared, Wilbur knew that, but he had put on a brave face and had only cried one as he left Wilbur's home.

Now, Wilbur sat in the foster home office, taping out a song on his knee, waiting for somebody to show up. He hasn't seen Tommy in over a month, only doing calls here and there as Tommy couldn't stream. But now he was going to see him, and Wilbur was beyond excited.

He heard footsteps coming down the hall, and he stopped the tapping to grab the papers in his lap. Tommy appeared in the doorway behind an older woman, eyes widening at the sight of Wilbur. Before either of them could say anything, the woman spoke.

"Hello Mr. Soot, I believe you said you want Tommy, yes?" She smiled, the skin around her eyes crinkling.

Wilbur nodded enthusiastically, a grin spreading on his face. "Yes ma'am!" 

"I see you already got the papers ready, just put them on my desk and Tommy can go home with you" Wilbur's grin grew as he saw Tommy's jaw drop, and his eyes flickered between Wilbur and the lady. He jumped up and placed the adoption papers on the desk and twisted around to face his younger brother. 

Tommy was staring at him, the gearing visibly turning in his head. Wilbur's clasped a hand on Tommy's shoulder.

"Ready to go home, Toms?"

**Author's Note:**

> You can tell the ending is rushed, but oh well. I really wanted to get this done as I have three other drafts I have to get done in less than a month. 
> 
> I was thinking of writing a short story of what happened for Tommy to end up in the tub, would anyone want that?


End file.
